


open every place

by neyvenger (jjjat3am)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-27 12:29:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6284617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am/pseuds/neyvenger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 4am on matchday and Hendo wakes up ill. Luckily, Ads and Milly are there to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	open every place

**Author's Note:**

> This is for Anna, who's been blogging about Milnerson for months now and mentioned something about Adam and Milly comforting Hendo after the match yesterday, when he got subbed in the second half after throwing up at halftime. Many thanks to you and to Kelly, for making sure I don't sound stupid in front of British people.
> 
> Title is from Anne Michaels, "The Hooded Hawk"
> 
> Enjoy!

 

 

Hendo wakes up on matchday with a fever.

 

He knows it’s a fever, because his feet feel cold and clammy, even after he pulls up an extra blanket from the foot of the bed, and his joints hurt more than they do usually, heavy and unwieldy. Staying in bed for a few hours wouldn’t do him badly.

 

Then, his stomach churns and it’s all he can do to get to the toilet in time, wrapping his arms around the cool porcelain.

 

“Hendo?” Adam calls from the doorway, and Hendo squeezes his eyes shut to cover up the tears that are leaking from the corners. “What’s wrong?”

 

“I’m fine, Ads,” he says, “go back to sleep. I’m okay.”

 

As if to betray his words, his stomach gives a spasm, and his world narrows down to the toilet bowl for a couple of minutes, his hands gripped around the cold white porcelain to hold up his shaking body.

 

He becomes aware of Adam kneeling next to him on the tiles, one hand stroking gently down his back. It feels nice. Hendo turns his head away and leans it against his hand instead of meeting Adam’s gaze.

 

“You’re ill,” Adam states, and Hendo starts to shake his head, but it makes him dizzy so he stops. “Look at the state of you. You can’t play like this.”

 

Hendo’s head snaps up, and he starts talking, ignoring the way it makes little dark spots dance before his eyes.

 

“I have to play,” he says. “I’m the captain.”

_It’s matchday,_ he doesn’t say, _it’s my responsibility._

 

Adam shakes his head but doesn’t protest and further. He was a captain too, once, Hendo remembers hazily, he must know what it means. What it means to Hendo.

 

Adam presses his hand to Hendo’s forehead. It’s cool and dry, it feels nice, and Hendo finds his body leaning into the touch without his mind’s permission. Adam lets out a little hiss between his teeth and his frown grows deeper, more pronounced in the wrinkles between his eyes, in the hard line of his mouth. He looks softer now, without the beard.

 

“I have to play,” Hendo says again, and Adam nods, just once, like he’s come to a decision.

 

“Alright,” he says, getting up off the floor of the bathroom. He looks tired in the glare of the bright lights and Hendo feels abruptly guilty, for keeping him up like this. “Do you think you can stand?”

 

The churning in his stomach has settled for the time being and Hendo nods, carefully finds his feet under Adam’s watchful eyes and heads back to their shared bedroom. He almost stumbles once, but Adam’s there to push his shoulder under his arm and hold him up.

 

He leaves Hendo sitting on the bed and fetches a bottle of water from the mini fridge. Hendo drinks hungrily, but forces himself to go slow.

 

“You lay down for a bit and I’ll go wake Andrew. He’ll know what to do.” Adam says and then he’s gone, and Hendo has no choice but to lay back and stare at the clock glaring red in the darkness of the room.

 

It’s 4am on a matchday and Hendo is ill.

 

 

*

 

 

Things are better come morning.

 

The doctor gives him some pills that calm the churning in his gut and bring his fever down. Adam’s still frowning at him, but it could just be because of the lack of sleep which Hendo still feels guilty about.

 

Željko stops him in the hallway to the breakfast room with a hand on his forearm, his eyes dark and unreadable.

 

“I heard you were ill,” he says, quietly as to not be overheard. His accent is thicker than Kloppo’s, but his words are deliberate. “Can you play today?”

 

“Yes, absolutely,” Hendo says, which is also what he would have said if half his leg were missing, but Željko seems to hear something that satisfies him, because he nods and lets him go.

 

“I’ll tell the boss,” he says and disappears down the hallway.

 

The breakfast room is already rowdy when he enters, and he slides quietly into a seat that Adam saved for him, with his breakfast of muesli and a banana that’s supposed to keep his stomach calm. Nobody seems to notice anything amiss. They all greet him exuberantly and go back to their discussion, except for Phil, who’s staring dead-eyed at his eggs and toast. This is not unusual; Phil is always a bit slower in the morning before the coffee kicks him. In fact it’s only a matter of time till either Bobby or Lucas start poking him in the side to get him moving.

 

Adam gives him a concerned look from his side, but doesn’t say anything, for which Hendo is grateful. Up until the moment Milly slides into the seat next to him, smiling and hard-eyed.

 

“Rumor has it that a certain Geordie had too much to drink last night,” Milly says quietly, “and he woke up throwing up this morning.”

 

“I’ve had as much alcohol in my life as you had, James,” Hendo hisses between his teeth, “which is to say, nothing at all.”

 

“Oh, is that right?” still with that infuriating smile. “I must have mixed something up then. Because the alternative would mean that you’re planning to play while very ill tonight, and that would just be silly, right?”

 

Hendo grits his teeth and stares at his yoghurt. Eventually, Milly sighs next to him.

 

“I hope you know what you’re doing, captain,” he says, “because whatever the match, it’s not worth risking your health.”

 

“Milly, this is United. I have to be there.”

 

Milly shakes his head, and on his other side, Hendo can see the tight grip Adam has on his glass.

 

“If you say so,” he says, and then gets up and walks away. There’s a cup of tea on Hendo’s platter that wasn’t there a minute ago. He reaches out and takes a sip. It’s brewed strong and sweeter than Hendo usually takes it.

_To help your stomach,_ he can imagine Milly saying. Next to him, Adam hides a smile behind his teacup.

 

 

*

 

 

He’s fine all thought training; even though he can feel that he’s not as sharp as he would be usually. But the gaffer doesn’t say a thing, just watches with his big eyes, bug-like through his glasses. Mama trips over Dejan and Hendo can hear him laughing from across the unfamiliar Old Trafford grass. Something in his chest relaxes.

 

Adam runs at his side, quiet and contemplative, and he catches sight of Milly from the corner of his eye, running with the Brazilians, then dropping back to converse with Clyne and Studge. Making the rounds so Hendo won’t have to.

 

He’s grateful, as much as it doesn’t make up for the knot of guilt constantly pulling in the bottom of his stomach.

 

“It’s fine,” Adam says, suddenly, tracking his gaze and seemingly reading his mind, “let him do it. There’s other people in this team, Hendo. You aren’t responsible for everything.”

 

Hendo shakes his head, but doesn’t reply.

 

Of course he’s responsible. A good captain always is.  Stevie always took responsibility for everyone.

 

The dull sun shines on the Old Trafford pitch. The grass is very green beneath his feet. The phantom pressure of the armband clamps around his arm like a vice.

 

 

*

 

 

The first half is alright. They concede from a penalty, but Phil gets one back almost at halftime, a little spark of magic, the ball swishing loudly to the back of the net before their pocket of Liverpool fans fills Old Trafford with song.

 

Hendo almost doesn’t hear it over the churning that starts in his gut. He makes it till the whistle blows, down the tunnel and into the dressing room, before he gets intimately acquainted with Old Trafford’s toilets.

 

He’s dimly aware of a hand comfortingly stroking his back, Adam and his eyes wide with concern, and Milly’s voice from the stall entrance, fielding everyone away, and answering questions, warm and soothing. Protective.

 

By the end of halftime, he’s changed his shirt and brushed his teeth. His reflection looks pale and sweaty in the mirror.

 

The gaffer is waiting for him at the door, a small smile playing across his lips. He doesn’t say anything, just watches Hendo with those piercing eyes.

 

“I can play,” Hendo blurts out, wincing at how hoarse his voice sounds. “I’m fine, I can play.”

 

Kloppo smiles, for real this time, and reaches out to brush Hendo’s sweaty hair away from his face.

 

“Son,” he says, “you shouldn’t have been playing in the first place. I’ll give you five minutes and then I’m taking you out.”

 

Hendo nods, knowing that the tone books no argument.

 

Ten minutes later, he’s back in the dressing room, listening to the game on TV while Andrew sticks a thermometer under his shirt. His stomach still feels unsettled, but it could just be nerves as they give away possession in midfield again. Still, the boys are handling it, Adam racing down the flank, his hand raised up and calling for the ball. Milly seems to be everywhere at once, running and running, tireless, the armband gleaming around his arm.

 

He’s proud of them, he thinks, as Mama comes away with the ball after another impossible tackle, as they press down on De Gea who looks increasingly pale. He watches as Kloppo waves his arms next to Ryan Giggs, whose face draws more and more in desperation as the minutes count down.

 

When his boys make their way down the tunnel, he’s already waiting, fully dressed and with a smile on his face.

 

His fever is spiking again, but he’s confident none of them notice as he trades handshakes and praise and encouragement. Studge wraps his hands around him when he walks past, and it’s familiar, like every time they’d meet in the physio office last summer, except this time he smells of grass and sweat and a sharp crackle of anger.

 

“You did good,” Hendo whispers against his hair, and Studge cracks a smile and promises him his mother’s home remedy for illness.

 

Phil and Bobby hug him together, gently like they’re afraid he might break, and he knows they want to ask, but either they think better of it or they don’t know the words. Bobby presses a kiss to his cheek. The backline is gruffer, but no less gentle. Dejan calls him ‘brate’ and he’s pretty sure Mama whispers a prayer when they shake hands. Clyney smiles at him, but there’s an edge to it, and he looks tired. Migs pats his arm carefully, one of his hands still stuck in a glove.

 

Hendo tells them he’s proud of them and they all beam back at him, placated by the victory.

 

 

*

 

 

They rush him past the media and into the team bus, where he slumps into one of the seats with a sigh.

 

He must fall asleep because when he wakes up, the bus is moving, and he’s leaning on someone’s shoulder. They’re very warm and he snuggles closer instinctively.

 

“Don’t puke on me, Geordie,” Milly mutters, and his chest rumbles pleasantly under Hendo’s ear. “This is my best shirt and my preferred dry cleaners are still in Manchester.”

 

“I’m a Mackem, not a Geordie, get it right,” Hendo says, feeling a bit disorientated, but also comfortable.

 

As if on cue, Adam’s face pops up above the seat in front. He grins and leans forward to pet Hendo’s hair, gel-free for once. He looks ridiculous, bent over the seat like that. It’s probably a safety hazard.

 

“Aw, aren’t you two cozy,” he coos.

 

 “Fuck off, Ads,” Hendo mutters under his breath, grins wider when he hears it echo in Milly’s voice.

 

They grin at each other like loons for a moment (or he assumes Milly is grinning too, he can hear him snickering), before Hendo lets his eyes drift shut again, resting more comfortably against Milly. He really is very warm. Adam’s fingers sweep his hair from his eyes and dance across his forehead gently, just once, before falling away.

 

 

*

 

 

The thing is, he hears what they don’t say. Because it’s been half a season now and they don’t really have to.

 

It’s _you’re okay_ in the pads of Adam’s fingers on his skin and it’s _we’ve got you_ in the thrum of Milly’s heartbeat. It’s security and understanding, that there are things he doesn’t have to do alone anymore.

 

He wonders, briefly, between one beat and the next, if Stevie had something like this too, or if he’d just been strong enough to handle it all on his own. Then he falls asleep and doesn’t think about Stevie any more.

 

Safe and secure, aboard a bus rolling down the M62, with Mama squabbling over the music with Dejan, Migs glaring at them as he tries to study, with Studge and Ibey sharing headphones, the Brazilians soundly asleep under Emre’s watchful eye (sometimes it looks like one of them might slide of the seat and he reaches up to push them the right way up). There’s still the heavy grip of illness clinging to his limbs and something inside him tightens at the thought of missing more training, but they just knocked Manchester United out of Europe for good and his team is safe and happy around him, so things are probably going to be alright.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is also dedicated to Liverpool FC medical staff because why the fuck did you let him play if he was so damn ill. Goddamnit.  
> Notes:  
> \- The Liverpool/United match in reference happened on March 17, it was an away fixture at Old Trafford and it ended as a draw, but 3:1 aggregate, so Liverpool was the one that advanced.  
> \- Andrew is Andrew Massey, Liverpool FC head of medical services  
> \- Milly teases Hendo about being a Geordie, and Hendo always corrects him that he's in fact a Mackem (i.e. the term people from Sunderland use to refer to themselves). This is Anna's headcanon, I'm just borrowing it, thank you very much.  
> \- I think that's all, feel free to ask for clarification on anything  
> \- find me on [tumblr](https://neyvenger.tumblr.com/)


End file.
